


The Long Way Around

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Fellatio, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, John is a bit clueless, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Moriarty is Dead, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Series, Romance, Scars, Sexual Tension, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Slow Burn, The one where they work it out, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3905404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had been very, very slow about it. It had taken them far too long to see what others around them had picked up on seemingly instantly.  That this thing connecting them, whatever it was, had been there from the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Way Around

 

 

They returned to the flat, falling through the door high on adrenaline and slightly out of breath. They had just solved a particularly engaging case, John was slightly behind, turning around to close the door. When he turned back, he almost walked straight into Sherlock, who hadn’t moved away from the entrance and was now all but backing John up against the wall, crowding into his personal space.

  
Sherlock was eccentric, but he wasn’t senile, there was no way that this was an accident, but John wasn’t immediately sure of his intentions.

  
Sherlock was staring down at him with an intensity that was even more un-nerving than some of his stronger glares, and that was saying something. John tried not to squirm under the pressure of Sherlock Holmes’ full concentration, and failed somewhat. His eyes were nearly completely black his pupils were so dilated, and he wasn’t blinking, which was just weird. John’s mouth suddenly became very dry.

  
If he were any other person John would say that he was exuding more sexual tension than that of an entire strip club put together and he would have expected to be pushed against the wall and thoroughly snogged.

  
But this was Sherlock Holmes. John didn’t think he even _had_ a libido and even if he did it must be half extinct by now because John had never known him to have a (not fake) partner, not even once since they’d first met. And if he did have one or want one, it certainly wasn’t _John_.

  
He hadn’t thought about it (much) apart from that first time at Angelo’s, Sherlock throwing out lines like _‘not really my area’_ and ‘ _I know it’s fine,_ ’ making it clear that he wasn’t interested, not that John had been asking him out or expressing his own interest. At least not consciously anyway.

  
And of course during the whole situation involving Irene Adler there had been something there but John had always suspected that it was fairly one-sided, and mostly intellectual for his flatmate’s part, that didn’t stop him from getting a bit jealous though. Mycroft had also chipped in with another possible element, not that anyone had asked him.

  
John thought that it was entirely possible that Sherlock simply had no interest in sex, or was asexual, and aside from the occasional guilty dream he’d never admit to, that was the end of it. It wasn’t any of his business.

  
So John didn’t understand why Sherlock was looking at him like he was an appetising meal that he intended to devour, and awkwardly squeezed his way around Sherlock, his face feeling uncomfortably warm.

  
“Tea?” He suggested, and started up the stairs before waiting to hear the response.

  
The tea making process was well under way by the time Sherlock had followed John, having ascended the stairs to the flat at an uncharacteristically glacial pace.

  
He was sitting in his chair, with his hands steepled under his chin in his thinking pose but he’d forgotten to so much as take off his coat and he was still looking at John strangely, though not with as much confidence. John swore he could physically feel the eyes tracking him.

  
Still, he’d had stranger experiences with things that Sherlock had left, or possibly grown, in the bathtub.

   
~

  
John was choosing to be particularly dim this evening and it was entirely deliberate. Or he hoped that was the case, because the alternative was that he had significantly less neural pathways than Sherlock had previously estimated.

  
This had been coming… _for a very long time_.

  
It had taken death, a stay in purgatory and resurrection before he’d even admitted that he wanted John in that way.  
And he _did_ want John in that way, in _every_ way.

  
He might have been fleetingly tempted to seduce John long before, but he’d dismissed the idea, having finally found someone who could bear to live with him he wasn’t simply going to throw that away for a ‘spur-of-the-moment’ shag.

  
But by the time he had fought his way back to life, Mary Morstan had happened and he was too late. So he’d hastily covered the wave of pain that caused him, he pushed his newly discovered desires to the side and became John’s best man (friend).

  
John being with Mary hurt him more than he’d expected, and despite the fact that he _liked_ Mary, he was both jealous and envious of her at the same time, therefore had to make a significant effort just to be nice to her and often found himself wishing John had never met her in the first place.

  
Imagining them on their sex holiday was unbearable and he’d decided a change of scenery was in order, luckily Lady Smallwood’s case later provided a preferable explanation as to why he had spent the better part of a month utterly wasted, a weak excuse for the alarming amount of heroin meandering through his bloodstream.

  
That amount of narcotics being shot into his veins just for a bit of publicity was a bit of a stretch, and Mycroft hadn’t bought the attempts to justify his actions for a second. Neither had Molly and she had no problems with expressing her displeasure, but understood him better now and that had stopped her short of spelling out the exact nature of the situation to John, preserving at least some of (his dignity) the lie.

  
He had been so relieved stepping off that plane again onto the tarmac, relieved that he wasn’t going to be exiled, that he wasn’t going to die horribly, relieved to have another chance, to see John again.

  
In fact he had been so consumed by this that if Mycroft hadn’t whisked him away the moment he’d exited the aircraft (much to his protest at the time), he certainly would have marched straight up to John Watson and kissed him, confessing everything he hadn’t been able to say earlier; right in front of his assassin wife no less.  
It had probably been a good move by his brother in hindsight.

  
Then there had been that mess with the Moriarty imposter, and things coming to a head with John’s wife.  
And it hadn’t really been the moment to tell him that he had wanted John desperately, all of him, more that he had ever wanted anyone in his entire life. Even he knew that.  
Not when he was grieving the fact that the child he had come to love think of as his daughter wasn’t his and had been deposited with her real father; David, her mother escaping the country as a wanted criminal.

  
Sherlock was fairly sure that John found him sexually attractive in return; he had been since the day they met. But he had become more and more certain as time had passed; especially since the main obstacles preventing their relationship from finally crossing the line between platonic and passionate (instead of hovering indecisively somewhere around not-quite-platonic-anymore) had now been removed.

  
He had been so certain that his feelings were reciprocated, and that it had been the right moment, until John had failed to respond decisively either way to Sherlock obviously propositioning him. He had been ready at last to show his hand once and for all, to gamble his heart and stop running.

  
But now John’s reaction gave him pause, it wasn’t exactly an outright rejection, but John could just be trying to save him the indiscretion of having his sentiments thrown back in his face.

  
If John didn’t harbour the same… adoration, for Sherlock then that was fine, he’d never expected for him to care as strongly for him as he did for John.

  
He’d take anything John was willing to give him at this point, even if it was just a vague fondness or attraction, it was pathetic, but there was nothing to be done, Mycroft had been right, he _was_ involved, and he was in far too deep.

  
If John felt nothing at all in return then that would be earth shattering for him emotionally, but Sherlock would make his peace with it, and was determined that if his revelation was unwanted(and it would certainly cause some discomfort for both of them if it was), that ultimately it would change nothing in the grand scheme of things.

  
He wasn’t sure, but despite his trepidation, they couldn’t continue to dance about and ignore it, _he had to know_. If he didn’t find out now, then he never would and not knowing would drive him mad.

   
~

 

“John.”

  
Sherlock’s voice permeated the pregnant silence of the flat, as John stirred the sugar (why did he like it so sickly sweet, it was awful) into Sherlock’s tea.

  
_“John.”_

  
His friend repeated himself insistently, voice suddenly much closer, god he was stealthy. John hadn’t even heard him get up.

  
He turned around to ask him what on earth the matter was, because apparently it couldn’t wait until he sat down. But anything he’d been about to say died before the words left his mouth when he saw Sherlock’s face.

  
His face was completely unguarded; his mask of cold indifference had been cast aside to grant John a very rare glimpse into his brilliant mind, just the implications alone of Sherlock making a deliberate effort to open up to John were powerful.

  
What he saw there was impossible to misread, the immense volume of unrestrained tenderness for him that Sherlock was able to convey in just _one look_ was staggering and it hit him like a shock wave. There was yearning there as well, which was very, very clear but hard for him to come to grips with.

  
He looked Sherlock up and down where he was standing before him laid open and nervous, but unapologetic as he waited for John’s verdict.

  
The palpable lust in Sherlock’s body language from earlier made a lot more sense to John now.

  
“So you…” he tried to start, but couldn’t find the right words, luckily Sherlock seemed to follow his transparent thought patterns;

  
“Yes.”

  
He belatedly remembered Sherlock’s speech, singing John’s praises, a declaration hidden in plain sight; a declaration made at _John’s wedding_. Had Sherlock felt this way when he’d stood by John’s side as his best man, watching John give himself to another? Oh god, he’d left the wedding early. And then the next time John had seen him he’d been high-off-his-face in a drug den. Mrs Hudson was a bloody prophet.

  
He though back further, Sherlock’s odd behaviour leading up to the event, Sherlock stopping himself from delving deeper into his deductions of Mary just because John asked him to (there was a reason John wasn’t the genius of the pair), and Sherlock leaping to his death just to keep John safe.

  
If that wasn’t dedication then the word had no meaning.

  
Just how long had Sherlock felt this way? How long had he held back selflessly, had he listened to John ‘I’m-not-his-date’ Watson fervently shooting down any hint that they might be a couple, without saying a word himself to deny it?  


“For, uh, for a long time,” Sherlock clarified, and it was possible that he’d accidentally said some of that out loud. He watched Sherlock’s eyes flickering away, looking anywhere but his face.

  
“Oh Sherlock.”

  
Sherlock’s face fell immediately after John spoke and his defences visibly began to slam back up again as he misinterpreted the sadness in his voice for pity. Their communication needed some serious work. In lieu of words to explain, John surged forward and placed a whisper of a kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

  
But this seemed to upset him further, he brought a hand up between them and took a large step backwards, and John hated the self-loathing that he could hear in the detective’s voice.

  
"Don’t. Don’t mess with me like that John, I can’t take it.”

  
John’s heart clenched, Sherlock was actually admitting that he couldn’t handle something, and it was worse, he’d got it all wrong; even if he wasn’t head over heels for the gorgeous bastard (and he was) John was not the sort of man to be cruel, especially not in a way that hit home so forcefully. It was typical for them that Sherlock was a genius but that when it was such an important issue, he made a real mess of it, turning the conversation into an over-used idiom.

  
The misunderstanding was frustrating, but the situation was too delicate to say something off hand or to be remiss, sometimes you can just feel the importance of a moment, he knew he had to get this one right because whatever happened after today, good or bad, they would never be the same again.

  
John had to make Sherlock understand.

  
He stepped forward calmly so he was Sherlock’s space again; making absolute certain his body language was non-threatening like he would if approaching an injured animal. And Sherlock Holmes in the right situation could be a lot more dangerous than most animals (injured or not), John was well aware of that.

  
The cogs in Sherlock’s brain were turning, the fight or flight response building in the man’s sympathetic nervous system and John could already tell that if allowed to proceed flight would win.

  
“Sherlock,” he wasn’t listening, “Hey, whatever you’re thinking in that big brain of yours; stop it, okay?”

  
He reacted up, catching his jaw and holding it firmly to force a reluctant Sherlock him to look John in the eye, trying not to react to the hurt he saw.

  
“It’s dangerous to theorise without all the facts, remember?” He quoted, gently but not condescendingly. Sherlock huffed in a self-depreciating sort of way, ducking his head, but John managed to catch the slight upward twitch of his lip before he did.  
Got him.

  
“And what facts are those?”

  
“You’re an idiot, Sherlock Holmes.”

  
Sherlock’s raised his head in indignant surprise, about to refute the uncalled for remark. John was smiling at him.

  
“I love you too, you twat, why didn’t you say anything?!”

  
For a few second’s Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed again quietly and he was starting to wonder if he’d broken him again, like he had for a full 14 minutes after asking him to be his best man. It bothered John just how much Sherlock was struggling to comprehend the fact that another human being could possibly love him.  
Sherlock was arrogant, and he certainly didn’t have self-esteem issues, but for whatever reason he apparently didn’t consider himself to be a person who should be the recipient of someone else’s affections.

  
After he’d recovered Sherlock was back to being his irritated self again,

  
“Why didn’t… why didn’t _I_ say anything?! For the love of- you’re Mr ‘I’m Not Gay,’ remember? You had a constant stream of insufferable girlfriends, and damn it you were _married_ John. Why didn’t _you_ say anything?” Sherlock shot back heatedly.

  
“Never said I was straight though did I?” John muttered under his breath and Sherlock’s head recoiled comically at the sudden epiphany, much like a car’s headrest in a collision.

  
“Bisexual,” he hissed, “You’re _bisexual_ , there’s always something,” he growled to himself, annoyed that the idea hadn’t occurred to him, that he’d missed that possibility.

  
“Besides,” John countered, “there’s you; an honest to god genius, swanning around all tall and gorgeous with your posh clothes and ridiculous bone structure, impervious to it all and then there’s just…me. How was I supposed to know you fancied me?”

  
What John had said was one of the most ludicrous statements Sherlock had ever heard, and he thought John’s mouth could be put to much better use elsewhere.

  
It was a huge moment for them and it had had infinite potential to be disgustingly soppy, but the conversation was saved from that as it felt a lot more like a benign argument or debate, as they continued to bicker about whose fault it was.

  
“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed impatiently, and he ended up slamming them against the wall with more force than he’d intended, kissing John feverishly. It was a bit messy, a little bruising and with a bit too much teeth due to the sheer enthusiasm put into it.

  
The initial standard of the kiss definitely didn’t matter to John because _he was snogging Sherlock Holmes_ , or rather was being thoroughly snogged _by_ him and he’d never been more turned on in his life. And Sherlock didn’t care about _anything_ ; he was too busy getting drunk off of John’s touch (especially _in his hair_ ), his taste and his scent.

   
~

   
John’s erection rubbed against Sherlock’s thigh, which had inserted itself between his legs at some point, causing them both to groan simultaneously into the kiss.

  
Abruptly Sherlock pulled back, but just to shrug off his coat, letting it pool carelessly around their feet before tearing John’s jumper over his head in one (dizzying) motion, flinging it behind him in the vague direction of the sink.

  
John just stood there panting, one hand clinging onto the back of Sherlock’s shirt, the other tangled in his curls as the man himself nimbly undid the buttons of John’s shirt, his mouth roaming over every patch of skin he revealed. This was going to be over awfully soon if they continued at this rate and John was grateful for the support provided by the wall, his knees becoming less reliable by the minute.

  
He gasped when Sherlock early palmed him through his jeans, and then Oh _God_ ; he was actually on his bloody _knees_ now, his quick musician’s fingers deftly unclasped John’s belt. Well he’d never been shy about anything else in his life, so John wasn’t sure why it was a surprise in the bedroom (hallway, they hadn’t even gotten that far yet).

  
“Look, I…uh, I have to ask if you’ve…ever -oh god- before, or...or if you have any…” he spluttered in an attempt to get a vague idea of Sherlock’s experience but the man wasn’t having any of it.

  
Sherlock’s mouth closed around his leaking cock, rendering him unable to speak, that answered that question anyway; he had _definitely_ done this before. John risked a glance down and almost came on the spot, because Sherlock was watching him through his lashes, pupils blown.

  
He could have sworn that not only was Sherlock extremely proficient in giving blow-jobs, but that he actually _liked_ doing it; he was enjoying himself, somehow managing to look smug with his lips wrapped around the shaft of John’s penis, doing _that_ with his tongue.

  
Sherlock must have sensed that John was close because he squeezed the base of him firmly, and pulled off with an obscenely wet popping sound. This elicited an unintentional whine from John, which Sherlock chuckled at.

  
Once John had recovered the ability to function again they moved down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom, Sherlock was wearing far too many clothes for his liking and John helped him to rectify that problem until they were both just left with their pants. John took control of the kiss and pushed Sherlock down onto his own bed.

  
John felt a primal sort of satisfaction seeing Sherlock laid out beneath him, pliant in his hands and the feel of his bare skin pressed against his own incredibly intimate, Sherlock was openly aroused and breathing hard, his pulse racing. John liked the idea that he was one of only a select few who have seen Sherlock like this.

  
He laved attention on Sherlock’s body, noting the fervent response he received to his mouth (and just a hint of teeth) on that long column of throat. He was more sensitive to John’s ministrations than any other lover he’d had and John wondered what all that influx of intense sensory information was doing to his massive brain to make him writhe in pleasure like that. John loved listening to all the involuntary little noises escaping him, especially when he finally wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock  


It was a give and take as they both mapped each other’s bodies, learning what worked for them. Usually the first experience with a new lover was awkward, a little off kilter, but they took their time and it was breathtakingly good.

  
He sat back on Sherlock’s thighs for a minute to catch his breath because he wanted this to last for as long as it possibly could. John felt about as wrecked as Sherlock looked; flat on his back with his arms splayed out and eyes shut in gratification. Sherlock’s curls were a catastrophe, his cupid’s bow swollen and red, and there were love bites already starting to bloom on his ivory skin.

  
God he was beautiful.

  
He opened his eyes and judging from the pleased expression that Sherlock was trying to hide, he’d said that last bit out loud.

  
Uncertainly Sherlock reached up and traced a finger around the scar on John’s left shoulder, keeping the pressure very light. It was his way of asking permission to investigate and John was impressed that he’d been able to restrain himself this far, he hadn’t seen it before and he knew Sherlock had always been curious about it.

  
“Go on then,” John smiled at Sherlock just being Sherlock. It wasn’t exactly something that he liked to parade around and as a result very few people had actually seen his scar, not even all of his ex-girlfriends had.

  
Sherlock bounced into a sitting position immediately, almost throwing John off, to pour over the complex knot of scar tissue, taking in as much of it as he possible could, moving John’s arm into various positions, cataloguing it’s texture and elasticity, assessing it’s scent and taste (which was a bit odd). Sherlock could no doubt read the exact trajectory of the bullet and the subsequent damage it had wreaked like a map on his skin. He caught a murmur of ‘subclavian artery’ at one point, which was absolutely correct. He spent equal amounts of time surveying both the entry and exit wounds; losing himself in his evaluation, occasionally throwing the odd query or remark John’s way, absolutely fascinated.

  
When he was satisfied he had finished the examination, he pressed a soft kiss to the centre, very tenderly, and leant back. It was an unusual display of sentiment for Sherlock and John was touched.

  
He was still staring at him in amazement when Sherlock looked up again, and frowned quizzically. He seemed to have no idea how it was strange to pause in the middle of having sex to spend 18 minutes pouring over one detail. Not that John was bothered when Sherlock did things like that, in a way it was very honest, he was being himself without thinking about it or censoring himself, and John loved that.

  
“That bullet brought you to me,” Sherlock mused philosophically, and John pushed him down to the mattress again, hiding the moisture in his eyes.

  
He didn’t completely refrain from touching Sherlock’s own scars, it would be hard to, but he knew about them and their significance, they’d had that difficult conversation. But he knew that emotionally, they were still a bit raw, being more recent and extensive than his own, so he did tend to avoid focusing on them.

   
~

   
“John, I want…ah” he stopped as John drove him mad with the lightest of touches.

  
“What do you want Sherlock? I didn’t quite catch that,” He teased, tracing concentric circles on the inside of his thigh, playfully pinning him to the bed.

  
Sherlock tried to glower at him, but his cock twitching in arousal sort of ruined that.

  
“I want…you…” he ground out deliberately, “inside… of me.” And John nearly choked in response, sucking in a lungful of air through his nose; face beet red.

  
“You want to…?” John had never actually had anal sex before, not with Mary or any of his girlfriends, he’d never even had sex with a man before now, but he knew the logistics.

  
“Yes.”

  
“I mean, are you sure that-”

  
“ _Yes_. I am sure. I am _very_ sure.” Was the impatient response; he meant it too, bloody hell. He cocked his head at John, “If you don’t want to though that’s fine, I just…”

  
“No!”

  
“No?”

  
“I mean yes I do. I do want that and I don’t… not want it,” he winced at his own verbal flailing. Well done Watson, very eloquent that. He wasn’t sure why he was acting like an awkward teenager; it wasn’t like he’d never had sex before or even …imagined this…

  
Sherlock squinted at him for a moment to make sure John was consenting before stretching out to reach a half empty bottle of lubricant from his top drawer. John bit his lip to the implications of the bottle having been used, imagining Sherlock touching himself in the dark. Sherlock smirked as if he could read John’s thoughts which, who knew, maybe he could.

  
John sat against the headboard, with Sherlock kneeling on either side of his hips, he kept having to bash his head against the wood to control himself as he watched Sherlock’s face scrunch up or his head fall back in ecstasy at the sensations of his own long fingers working himself open while John (not being able to help himself) stroked Sherlock’s cock, achingly slowly.

  
By the time Sherlock was ready, removing the three fingers buried inside him, John was squirming and, from the noises he’d been making, Sherlock was practically gasping for it. They kissed desperately, John’s hands coming round to grope Sherlock’s frankly fantastic arse.

  
He went to ask how Sherlock wanted to do this but he was way ahead of him shuffling up the bed until he was sat in John’s lap.

  
They maintained direct eye contact as John’s cock breached him before Sherlock’s head dropped to John’s shoulder with a thunk. John’s hands clutched at Sherlock’s hip bones, nerve endings on fire as the detective slowly impaled himself, inch by inch, moaning at the stretch.

  
It was better than John could have imagined, and very different, god he was so deliciously tight. He forced himself to wait, reverently stroking his lover’s sides, giving Sherlock time to adjust as he bottomed out. Just the feeling of being physically connected, of being buried inside him was overwhelming, more than it had ever been before, because it wasn’t just sex, it was with Sherlock; he was having sex with _Sherlock_.

  
They started slow, Sherlock riding him deliberately while John thrust up from below, but there wasn’t enough leverage and so John took charge and they changed positions, Sherlock clamping the headboard in a death grip while John fucked into him from behind.

  
It escalated rapidly after that, Sherlock begging him to fuck him harder and harder (evidently, he liked it best when John was more forceful) and John complied, thrusting against his prostate with abandon, stroking Sherlock in time.

  
It was verging on the point of being too much for John, with Sherlock being so delightfully vocal; whimpering and moaning as he pressed back into John repeatedly, chasing climax, becoming increasingly wilder, even frantic, before at last he came; spilling hot over John’s fingers with a broken cry.

  
John kept going, fucking him though it with 6 rough strokes, his own orgasm hitting him hard, ejaculating into Sherlock in waves, before they both collapsed onto the sheets, completely spent.

   
~

   
Sherlock felt heavy and tranquil, the endorphins of the release screaming through his veins as they lay tangled and breathless, a satisfying ache deep in his pelvis. God he could get used to this.

  
They would be glued together and sticky in the morning, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

  
“Mycroft was wrong them,” John mumbled sleepily behind him and Sherlock shuddered,

  
“If you ever mention my brother in bed again, I swear to god there will not be a next time.”

  
“There was going to be a next time?”

  
Sherlock froze for a second, but John immediately chuckled and kissed him on the temple; joking.

  
“Sorry, bit mean, that.”

  
“Oh, I can take it, people have… _given me_ a lot worse,” He drawled knowingly, John’s frame shaking with silent giggles at the barest hint of innuendo.  
  


~

   
Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in the concepts of fate or soulmates, but he and John did seem to fit together rather nicely, they complimented one another well. People had informed him that they ‘looked cute together’ whatever that was supposed to mean, and he had to admit that their names in tandem, ‘Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,’ did have a bit of a ring to it.

  
They had been very, very slow about it. It had taken them far too long to see what others around them had picked up on seemingly instantly. That this _thing_ connecting them, whatever it was, had been there from the beginning.

  
They had gotten there eventually though, even if they had taken the long way around.

 

 


End file.
